The Unknown
by HJB
Summary: Chuck, Sarah, the wilderness, and some bad guys.
1. Chapter 1

Summary: Chuck, Sarah, the wilderness, and some bad guys.

Disclaimer: I own nothing and do not intend to profit in any way.

AN: I do plan to continue "The Story of the End", for those of you who asked. This shouldn't be more than a few chapters. I'm 1/2 of the way done, so expect another part this week.

**-The Unknown-**

The air tastes stale as I take another deep breath. Chuck has been tapping his hands on the tray-table incessantly, for the last twenty minutes. The music from his iPod isn't loud enough for me to hear, but I have no doubt his rhythm is horrible. I try shifting in my seat. Nothing alleviates the cloud of annoyance floating above my head. My last shred of patience disappears when Chuck goes into some fast paced drum solo.

"Chuck," I sigh out, but he is too busy bobbing his head to the song. There are even unintelligible sounds emanating from his lips. Reaching for the wire on his chest, I yank out his ear buds. He looks at me in astonishment. Embarrassment quickly follows.

"Sorry," he apologizes sheepishly. I will have none of it.

"Why don't you just go sit somewhere else? The plane is empty and I'd like some peace for once."

Shock crosses his face, before being replaced with grim determination. Packing up his player, he slams the tray-table closed and stands.

"Sue me for trying to have a little fun on this trip."

"Well you don't have to have fun next to me when there are 10 vacant seats for you to use."

"Of course Agent Walker. I think I'll just go have a chat with Skippy."

He stalks away and I crinkle my face in frustration, regret, anger, and almost every other emotion on the spectrum. Since Chucks almost extraction and my subsequent turn down of his offer, things have been strained. That's probably even a bit of an understatement.

We're fine when doing something to maintain our couple cover. Chuck has become quite the actor. Regular interactions and missions are another story. Fighting and snarky comments are a common occurrence. I don't think we've had a genuine conversation in weeks. Our current assignment isn't helping.

A few days ago, we received word that there was another scientist who may be able to get the Intersect out of Chuck's brain. Casey had to stay behind at the Buy More, but General Beckman wanted Chuck and I to proceed to Oregon.

I was happy for him, at first, but the more I thought about the last six months in LA, the less joyful I became. Part of my constant bad mood is my inner struggle to deny these feelings of attachment to my assignment. Chuck, on the other hand, has just been bipolar.

I shake my head to clear that train of thought and look around the tiny aircraft for a head of curly hair. He's nowhere to be found, but I put my other senses to use and hear his laughter coming from the cockpit. Something about flight simulators. Always the nerd.

Looking at my watch, I realize there are still a few hours before we reach the tiny airfield in Ashland. I was unable to sleep during the commercial flight to Sacramento and decide to attempt rest now that Chuck is otherwise occupied. It doesn't take long for my exhausted system to shut down.

BOOM!

I'm shaken awake by some monstrous sound. In my grogginess, I wonder if Chuck finally convinced Skippy to let him take over the controls. My cognizance returns and I wish that was the case. Instead, I see a massive hole in the plane's structure. It's still intact, but just barely. We've been hit by something.

"Chuck," I yell, getting out of my seat and into protective agent mode. I start out of the row, but the vehicle banks wildly, forcing me back. Looking out the window, I see nothing buy trees, very close trees. We're crashing.

After weighing my options, I quickly settle down and buckle my seatbelt. A screeching sound above draws my attention. I watch in horror as the plane breaks apart and I am separated from my companions. Cold air hits my face. Closing my eyes, I find religion and pray for this nightmare to be over.

The carriage jerks violently as it reaches tree level. Another seat is all that protects me from being assaulted by branches. Meeting intense resistance, the plane flips vertically and I see nothing but cold, hard ground approaching.

-------

_Yes, this is one of those plane crashes in the mountains stories, with a Chuck twist. The rest of the chapters should be longer, but no by much. Let me know what you think._


	2. Chapter 2

The Unknown

Summary: Chuck, Sarah, the wilderness, and some bad guys.

Disclaimer: I don't own anything and in no way intend to profit.

AN: The bug hit me tonight and I decided to finish this chapter, which took longer than I thought it would. The last 1/3 was just written, but I proofread everything.

-Chapter 2-

The silence is heavenly because it means I'm no longer being manipulated by the forces of gravity. It's as if we crashed through the ground and the tail is all that remains visible, but I know the severed fuselage is precariously balanced on the snowy mountainside. My lower torso aches from the force of my body trying to fall and the seatbelt preventing escape.

I push against the seatback in front of me, alleviating some of the strain, and carefully remove my safety strap. The structure shifts at the redistribution of weight and I unconsciously hold my breath, waiting for it to settle. Fear for Chuck is set aside and the CIA agent kicks into gear.

Whatever hit the plane wasn't an accident. Someone is after us. They're going to want to confirm a successful operation. I need to run; we need to run. Hopefully, the cockpit didn't travel that much farther than its one time counterpart.

My palms slip slightly as I climb over the leather seats to the plane's tail. Reaching the panel marked with a red cross, I locate the keypad in the lower right-hand corner and enter my code. The door pops open and I see just what I was looking for, weapons. A set of my trusty knives and my friendly handgun are in their usual hiding places throughout my body, but you can never have too much firepower, as Casey likes to say.

There's a pre-packed bag filled with ammo and a few other handy items. I sling it over my shoulder and go to close the door when something else captures my attention. It's the plane's first aid kit. Normally, agents would shun things like this in favor of traveling unencumbered. All I can think of is Chuck and the fact that the plane's front probably took the brunt of the impact. Refusing to argue with myself and waste precious time, I grab the case and lock the panel before carefully maneuvering vertically down the plane like a scene from Mission Impossible.

My feet touch solid ground and I immediately look for a way out of my prison. As if I've been wandering through the desert and finally find an oasis, I vault through the first sizable opening that appears in my field of vision.

It's cold. That's the first thing that crosses my mind. Having spent most of my life on the east coast, I'm use to cold weather, but these last few months in California have spoiled me. The wind is blowing at a steady rate and the skies are overcast with that ominous winter light shining through. Nightfall is approaching quickly. I survey my surroundings and see a path of broken tree tops. Even though the cockpit appears to have traveled farther than I expected, it shouldn't take more than five minutes to hike to the wreckage.

The snow isn't exceedingly deep, only reaching mid-calf level, but I'm glad that I wore my boots because they provide an extra bit of protection from the elements. Silence surrounds me as I rack my brain for survival training in situations like this. A lack of obvious birds indicates one of my many fears. There's a storm coming. As if being stranded and pursued isn't enough of a challenge.

I'm on full alert, even as my mind wanders to plausible and implausible scenarios. Stepping over a few fallen tree limbs, I reach the piece of the plane for which I was searching. My breath hitches. The windshield is broken and a tree is sticking out of the cockpit. I rush inside as quickly and safely as possible.

"Chuck," I call, hoping to hear his response and some affirmation of health. Nothing.

Shattered glass clutters the floor and crunches under my feet. I see the pilot first and he doesn't look well. My hand is firm and steady as I check for a pulse. There are no obvious signs of trauma, but he's dead and I don't have time to investigate. With slightly less confidence, I turn to where Chuck should be sitting.

Oh shit.

Part of the tree has pierced his right shoulder. His head is bleeding profusely and his left wrist is displaced at a slightly grotesque angle. I don't see any visible injuries to his legs, which is key to us getting out of this mess, if he's still alive.

Kneeling on the ground beside his seat, I check for signs of life and try to keep my stomach under control. He has a heartbeat. I lightly slap the blood free side of his face.

"Chuck. Wake up. We need to move."

No response.

I decide that it may be better for him to remain blissfully unconscious while I take care of his injuries. The impaled piece of tree comes first. My instinct is to pull it out and prevent infection, but my training prevails. Taking it out could start bleeding that may not stop. I need a saw.

After rummaging through the first aid kit, my supply bag, and the cockpit, I can find noting usable to sever the wood. I run my hand through my hair in frustration at the loss of time and my own incapability. Sitting down on the floor, I'm startled by a sound behind me. I get back on my feet and into a fighting stance instantly, but there is nothing to battle. It's then that I notice my gun on the ground. I smile.

The silencer screws onto my piece with ease and I stand back a safe distance. Three quick shots escape. The noise is almost deafening, as the bullets fly through the wood and hit the metal of the plane, but it's nothing compared to a non-muffled attempt. Moving closer, I inspect my work and am pleased by the results.

Now it's time to separate Chuck from the tree. Placing two hands firmly around the wood closest to his chest, I brace it to prevent movement. I give myself a pep talk and kick the main part with my left leg. It cracks slightly, but is still connected. My next kick had more force, which finally breaks the tree and also throws me off balance and into Chuck's lap.

"Sarah," he mumbles, groggily. The guy has perfect timing.

I ease off of him and into a crouched position. His eyelids flutter open, revealing an unfocused gaze. Grabbing supplies from the first aid kit, I begin wiping off his bloody face.

"What's going on?" His voice is stronger.

"The plane crashed. Do you remember anything?"

He instinctually shakes his head. He then begins moaning.

"I think I'm going to be sick."

Acting quickly, I ease him forward and rub his back while he empties the contents of his stomach. He dry heaves a bit before sitting back in the seat. I wipe off his mouth and am shaken to see blood on the cloth. It could be from his heaving or it could just be from the gash on his head.

"Don't suppose you have a breath mint," he asks jokingly.

I manage a slight smile, despite my worry and say, "All out, sorry."

"We crashed didn't we?"

I'm about to complain that I already explained our predicament, when the realization hits. He has a concussion. I figured the scrape on his scalp was from glass or a tree limb, but he must have bumped something during the landing. This combination of injuries is not good.

"Yes. Something hit the plane."

I'm confused slightly by his replying, "I was trying to get to you."

"What?"

"After the explosion, I got up to see if you were ok, but I was thrown into something. Skippy buckled me in and….where is he?"

His change of topic jars me and it takes a bit longer to respond than normal. My thoughts turn to the agency pilot that Chuck formed an unrequited friendship with, upon reaching the airfield in Sacramento. The man refused to give his name, so Chuck decided to call him Skippy.

"Sorry, he didn't make it."

Silence hangs in the air.

"That's alright. He didn't really get my jokes."

"Yeah," I respond, unsure how to react. His eyes start to close and I'm once again compelled into action.

"You need to stay awake Chuck. We have to move."

"I want to stay here. Too tired."

I put my hands on both sides of his head to ensure his attention.

"Listen to me. Someone is after us and we can't stay near the wreckage."

"Who….why?"

"I have a good guess as to why, but the who is up in the air."

My hands feel heavy against his skin. The scene becomes awkward when only silence follows my explanation. I remove my limbs quickly and Chuck does that nervous whistle of his.

"Did you call for help?"

I'm surprised by his spell of coherency, but Chuck has always exceeded expectations.

"I put out the code, but there was no signal, so I'm not sure if it was received. We need to operate as if we're on our own."

"Right, operate…………we're going die," he bemoans, once again becoming fuzzy.

"No. You see this," I question, pointing to his watch.

"My watch?"

"It's got a tracker. Casey is going to start worrying when we don't report in tonight. He'll know something has gone wrong and your watch will lead him right to us."

He's zoning out again, but manages a, "Yeah."

"We need to be alive when he gets here Chuck. That means your going to have to help me. No falling asleep."

Chuck knows a challenge when he hears it and rightly blinks away as much of the weariness as possible. Now it's time for the painful obstacle.

"I have to set your wrist or else you could do more damage," I supply, moving closer to his arm.

As if just learning he had that particular extremity, he glances down at the injury zone. I can see the look of panic creeping into his features. Grabbing a smaller branch from the tree, I shove it into Chuck's mouth before he can protest.

"Bite on that. This will hurt; I'm not going to lie, but we'll do it quickly, on the count of three."

He shuts his eyes tightly and nods slightly. Placing my hands in their appropriate places, I being counting. I pull on the count of two and the bones make a sickening crack before righting themselves. Chuck's screams are muffled by the wood, but his feet kick wildly. He's in pain and I can't help but run a soothing hand over his brow.

"I'm sorry, but it's set now," I say softly, taking the guard from his mouth.

He's too stunned to say anything. Using more branches from the tree and a bandage from the first aid kit, I splint Chuck's wrist as efficiently as possible. Two butterflies make their way to the gash on his forehead, along with a larger gauze pad to soak up the blood that continues to leak. A doctor would put his injured wrist in a sling, but the agent in me knows that having his limbs mobile could be the difference between life and death.

I look him over once more to make sure nothing else requires medical attention. The kit is going to have to be left behind. I can't be bogged down any more and Chuck is in no condition to carry something other than his own body weight.

"Time to go," I instruct, standing up and reaching for his waist.

He's unsteady, but manages to get to his feet. I give him a minute for orientation, before securing the pack on my back. We slowly head out of the wreckage and into the setting sun.


	3. Chapter 3

AN: Sorry for the wait, but school's been crazy and so has this story. I'm not really satisfied with how it's going, so it will probably be a long wait from here on out because I want to get the whole thing written before I post again. I also want to warn you that I may re-write this chapter later, so read at your own risk.

-Chapter 3-

We head back in the direction of the other wreckage site. Twilight is setting in and the forest has taken on an eerie darkness. The trees aren't packed too closely together, so we should have several feet of visibility when the sun sets, but even a hardened international agent can get the creeps.

We have to be in the Cascades. That's the only thing that makes sense, considering the topography and our flight plan. So: our plane was shot down, we have people after us, we're in the forsaken mountains, there are big, big game, Chuck is hurt, we might be on our own, and it's going to storm. I'm really starting to hate this job.

Chuck is moving under his own power, but I see signs of distress. His breathing is ragged and he stumbles every few steps. For the first time, I'm cognizant of the fact that he's wearing his BuyMore uniform, minus the tie, and nothing else. I should have given him time to pack, but I had to be a hardass and schedule the most immediate flight.

"Did you bring a jacket?" I ask, knowing that the temperatures will decrease drastically once the sun sets. He doesn't reply, but I can tell he's trying to recall the information and is unable.

"Chuck."

"I think so, but I…."

I pull up next to him and put a reassuring hand on his back.

"It's alright. We're heading back to the tail. I'll look for it then."

When we reach the newly created clearing, I sit Chuck down next to a tree and head into my former prison. I look up and down the plane's body for Chuck's jacket, finally locating it under one of the seats. It's not ideal, but it should retain some of his body heat.

Inspecting the outside of the plane, I find what I am looking for and head back in Chuck's direction. His eyes are closed and I fear that he slipped into unconsciousness during me brief absence. I call his name, but he doesn't respond. My steps hasten and I'm quickly kneeling beside him, shaking his good shoulder.

"Whoa…what?"

I can't help the relief that spreads through me, but I'm outwardly neutral. Handing Chuck his jacket, I say, "Here, put this on. It's getting chilly."

I put the jacket on his leg and set about searching through my pack. Our followers need to be delayed as long as possible. That means we have to create the illusion that their mission was successful. We'll have to…my thoughts are interrupted by Chuck's weak voice.

"What," I question, upset at the distraction.

"Would you...could you" he responds. I hate when he talks in nonsensical lines and I'm about to tell him so, before I realize his predicament.

He has his injured wrist inside one of the sleeves, but his other arm won't function enough to complete the process. I silently chide myself for being so concerned with the plane that I forget an equally important part of my assignment. Without uttering a word, I lift his right arm and gingerly slide it into the coat. He gives a small grin of gratitude and I zipper him up, patting his chest lightly when I'm done.

"Time to get up again. I need to get you to a safe distance."

"From what," he wonders aloud, leaning against me as I wrap my arms around his waist and hoist him to his feet.

Instead of responding, I urge his legs to move faster by applying pressure to his side. He remains silent, but his steps do quicken. I'm not sure if he's appeasing me or is too tired to care that I ignored his inquiry. We travel a hundred yards or so, before stopping at another indistinguishable, tall piece of nature. I motion for him to sit down, but he instead leans carefully against the organic structure.

"I think I'll stay standing."

I don't say anything, but there is a questioning glint to my gaze and he senses that. He's always been more perceptive than I, as his handler, would have liked.

"Might not want to get back up…cold, hard ground can be so tempting."

He forces a smile that stops with his lips. It's good that he can still joke about things, but we've only been in the cold for minutes and his weariness unnerves me. Even though I've been taught basic first-aid and survival medicine, Chuck's compounding injuries may be out of my league. That's hard to accept.

"No problem. I'll be right back," I assure, keeping my voice as neutral as possible.

Reaching the clearing once more, I scan the horizon for signs of life, whether they be good or bad. It's been roughly an hour since the plane went down and I'm surprised our attackers have not arrived. Casey should start to worry soon, but it may be too little too late. It's going to be up to me whether or not Chuck survives.

I check my target one more time before raising my gun and aiming. I'm about to bring the enemy right to us and buy us more time. The bullet shoots out of the barrel, hitting the plane just below the wing, on the underbelly. Even from this distance, I can feel the heat from the explosion on my back, as I make my way to Chuck.

"What was that," he asks distraughtly, moving to meet my approach.

"Improvisation," I reply in an uninterested voice.

"You blew up the plane. Haven't you heard of a little something called a forest fire?"

"Look, they're going to think we were in there, at least for a little while, and that can buy us some time," I explain, while breaking off a branch from the nearest pine tree and putting it in his good hand.

"I should call Smokey The Bear on you."

"Be serious Chuck," I admonish, but the slightest hint of a smile escapes my grasp and he reciprocates ten fold.

"Fine. I'll call him later."

"We're not starting a forest fire. There's snow on the ground and another storm is about to start."

"Whatever helps you sleep."

I resume my position as Chuck's crutch and check the compass on my cell phone, thanking the technology gods that it still works because I can't see the stars through these clouds. The plane was heading North West, so we're following that route and getting as far away from the hostiles as possible or, as a last resort, we find a defendable place to stay. I'm not even one hundred percent sure they're behind us, we could be walking right for them, but the angle of the missile's impact tells me we're doing the right thing.

I motion to the branch in Chuck's hand and instruct, "I want you to drag that behind us. It's not the best, but I'm hoping that the coming precipitation will help. Can you do that?"

"Yeah. Like this," he questions, gingerly moving his arm back. It has to hurt, but we can't leave our tracks untouched.

"That's perfect," I reassure.

We continue our trek in silence, as darkness begins to surround us. My senses are set on detecting threats, so it shocks me when his voice breaks into my consciousness.

"What if they didn't know where we were and they do now?"

"They're going to think we were in the plane and try to confirm that."

"What if they assume we got out before it caught fire?"

I don't respond.

"I mean they now know exactly where we are."

"They knew where we were anyway Chuck. I made a judgment call. What's done is done."

I'm angered by his thoughts because he is only reiterating the same ones I had. Second guessing distracts you and distractions get you killed.

I did the right thing.…I think.

I hope.


	4. Chapter 4

_AN: Just wanted to say that I'm loving all the new stories being posted. They help get me through my own frustrations with writing._

Chapter 4

The Sun has completely set and my eyes have adjusted to the darkness, but the moon isn't as bright as I had hoped, due to the storm clouds above. Snow is falling lightly and the temperatures have dropped rapidly. It can't be above thirty, by my estimations. Chuck dropped the branch he was using to cover our tracks some time ago. I don't even think he realized it, so I chose not to broach the subject, considering his propensity for freak outs. The snow and visibility should give our pursuers enough trouble.

Chuck stumbles again in the snow. I hold firm to his side, as he fights to regain his balance.

"I need a break," he pants.

The caretaker in me wants to give him as much rest as possible. The agent in me knows we need to put as much distance as possible between us and the crash site.

"We just stopped twenty minutes ago," I explain, letting the agent win.

My grip remains tight and I continue forward, before he can stop our momentum. I want nothing more than to let him curl up with his head in my lap, but now is not the time. I'm not sure that time will ever arrive or that I would even recognize it.

Chuck marches along beside me and I think that's the end of his protest, but I am surprised when he is ripped from my arms by the forces of gravity. I turn around to find him kneeling, with his hand on his thighs and his head facing the snow covered earth.

"What's wrong Chuck," I question, hunching down beside him. Concern laces my voice.

He doesn't answer me. It's like all of his energy is focused on his quickened intakes of breath. He sits up slightly and his hands fumble for the zipper of his jacket. After several seconds, he gives up and starts pulling erratically on the fabric.

My hands brush his away and I undo the garment for him. It does no good. His hands just begin clawing at his BuyMore shirt. I'm really starting to worry.

"Tell me what's going on Chuck. I don't know what to do."

He looks up at me with the gaze of a wounded animal pleading for life. I can tell he's trying to speak because his mouth moves, but no sound emerges.

He manages a whisper. "Can't breathe."

I don't understand why he's having trouble breathing. It doesn't make any sense. In response to his pulling, I remove his already loosened tie and unclasp the first few buttons of his shirt. He doesn't seem to be any more at ease, so I do the best I can to quell his hysteria.

"Chuck, I want you to calm down. Take slower breaths."

He nods his head in agreement and I wait to see improvement. His hands fall back to his thighs, as he tries to implement my instructions.

"Is it working," I ask.

Chuck shakes his head again, but in the negative sense. The jostling isn't good for his head injury even if it is easier than speaking. I look around in frustration, as if asking the forest gods to give me an answer.

At a total loss, I go for the most motherly action possible, rubbing my hand up and down Chuck's back. I then nudge him to the nearest tree. He leans back slightly and I unfold his legs. The tension in my body subsides slightly, as his rhythm becomes steadier.

"You ok?"

"Better," he squeaks. His voice is clearer, but exhausted.

He closes his eyes and I undo the remaining buttons of his shirt. His good hand grabs my wrist.

"What are you doing?"

"I'm not going to molest you. You kept grabbing at your chest. I need to see what's wrong."

He acquiesces and I finish the job, moving both sides out of the way. I am shocked by the bruising that I see on his chest and torso. My reaction must have been visible because Chuck immediately barrages me with questions.

"You just have some serious bruising. I may have jostled one of your ribs against your lungs, causing your breathing problem," I reassure, failing to mention my hypothesis that bone pierced his lung, causing it to deflate and quite possibly filling it with liquid, with blood. But I'm no doctor and my prognosis would probably sever any semblance of rationality that remains. I don't think Chuck could get any more injured, even if he tried.

"Here. I want you to stay hydrated," I order, handing him an open bottle of water. He takes it without protest.

"I don't have anything to wrap your chest, which would be ideal, so we're just going to have to be extra careful."

I'd have something to wrap him with, if I had brought the first-aid kit.

"Sarah," he says, wanting to make sure he has my attention.

"Yeah?"

"I can't go on."

I want to chastise him into compliance; give some sort of drill instructor monologue. Something stops me. I'm not sure whether it's how horrible he looks or the part of my mind that constantly reminds me that Chuck is an unwilling participant in the spy life.

"Fine, but we have to find an acceptable place for cover before we can stop," I explain.

"Ok."

My cold fingers once again fumble with the buttons of Chuck' shirt and my eyes struggle to keep my gaze professional. His well defined chest does not catch my attention and neither do his abs. Shaking my head, I quickly zipper up his jacket, put his tie in my pocket, and deposit the water bottle in it's appropriate compartment, inside my bag of tricks.

I gently help Chuck to his feet and situate things so that I can still support him without hurting his injuries. My hand ends up on his waist, fingers hooked through his belt loops. We set off on our trek for cover, which turns out to be a short one, as we happen across several large rocks that provide protection and good lines of vision.

"Here we go," I encourage, pushing Chuck up the slight incline to our new home.

He eases to the ground and I take time to scope the surrounding area for escape routes and trouble. They shouldn't be able to see us from more than twenty feet, at which point I too will be able to see them. Even night vision goggles will be of no use in this weather.

When I arrive back at camp, Chuck is sitting behind a rock. I sit opposite of him on the inclined plane, facing the path we just traveled.The rock is taller than his slouching form, so he isn't visible from the other side, but I am and it gives me a great view.

"Do you want something to eat?"

No answer.

"Chuck," I say, loudly.

I nudge, well Chuck would describe it as kicking, his leg and his eyes open slowly.

"What," he asks.

"You need to stay awake."

Acting like the baby he can sometimes be, he says, "I don't want to."

"We didn't just go through all of that to have you fall asleep and slip into a coma."

He's properly reprimanded, but meekly continues to protest. "I'm tired."

"Why don't we talk? That should keep you awake," I offer.

"About what?"

"I don't know. You choose."

"Can I ask you questions?"

I hesitate. This could get into dangerous territory, but if it's what he wants to do than so be it.

"Sure," I finally reply.

"And you'll be truthful," he asks, with suspicion lacing his tone.

"I think you know what I can't tell you and it's easier to be truthful about other things than is it to lie and then have to remember them later."

"Great," he says, sitting up slightly in excitement.

"I get to ask you questions too, Mr. Bartowski," I tease.

His face falls slightly, but he accepts my conditions.

"So you probably can't tell me your birthday, but I'm going to guess you're in your twenties."

I shake my head to signal his correct prediction. "I'm twenty-eight."

"Ahh…an older woman. Not sure how I feel about that," he jokes.

"Shut up," I chuckle. "It's only one year."

"I know you don't like olives, so what is your favorite food?"

I look at him in disbelief. "Are we in elementary school?"

"Well what else am I supposed to ask? Answer the question counselor," he quips.

"Hmm…let me think." I mock serious thought by putting my hand on my chin, before answering, "I'm going to have to go with grape Popsicles. The ones with the funnies on them."

"Popsicles? Are you twelve?"

"Well what's yours Mr. Maturity."

He gives me that goofy grin, before saying, "Pizza, of course."

We go on like that for who knows how long. Chuck sticks to the safe topics and I only have to refrain from answering twice. It's as good of an experience as one can have in this atmosphere and will help to patch up the tenuous relationship we've had these past few weeks. Even with our conversation, I maintain constant surveillance of our surroundings. I'm finishing a visual sweep when I realize that Chuck hasn't answered my latest question.

"Chuck," I say, making the all too familiar call.

There's no answer and I cautiously crawl over to his side of camp. After several minutes of shaking and name calling, I realize that he has slipped into unconsciousness.

"Damn it."


	5. Chapter 5

_AN: I decided to forgo school work today and finish another chapter. Hope it doesn't come back to haunt me. Thanks for the reviews._

Chapter 5

There's nothing I can do now but wait and make the final stand whenever our foes happen upon us. They will find us, I've resigned myself to that. It's just a matter of time. My weapons are in place and I've run several scenarios in my mind, all of which involve superhuman efforts on my part. I can handle three on one. Anything else will be a challenge.

I'm not sure whether Chuck has slipped into the coma I feared or it's just a temporary state of unconsciousness. He's slightly sheltered from the falling snow, so I decide to leave him in his current location, while I return to my lookout point and sit in silence.

Surprisingly, a lot of my life as a spy has involved sitting, waiting, and silence. Eighty percent of my work is reconnaissance and relationship building. Before I met Chuck, I hated that part and yearned for the twenty percent, when I could be part of the action. In the last year, I've learned to appreciate the quiet moments that most agents consider mundane.

I'm brought out of my introspection by a strange sound. Checking all points of access, I find no cause for concern even though the noise continues. My body stills and my senses adjust so that I am able to pinpoint the source, which turns out to be the injured man in front of me.

"Chuck?"

Hoping that he is once again a member of the here and now, I scurry to his side. My gloved hand skims the curve of his face, waiting for his eyes to open and that groggy grin to grace his features. It's all for naught, however, as I realize that origin of my excitement is his chattering teeth. His flimsy clothing appears to be no match for the weather and an unmoving form.

Without thinking, I shrug off my winter coat and drape it over him. I tuck the sides securely under his body, ensuring maximum insulation. His shaking and chattering lessens, but nothing will help him unless he wakes up and moves around or rescue arrives.

Moving back to my station, I start to realize how cold it truly is tonight. With the loss of my coat, I'm left in just a long sleeve cotton shirt and jeans. I rub my hands up and down my arms, in an attempt to create heat from the friction and to keep my blood pumping.

I don't know how long I sit there for, but I think about everything and nothing at the same time. Like déjà vu, another noise from Chuck captures my attention.

"Sarah," Chuck says weakly, breaking the precarious calm of the forest and startling me.

"You're awake," I state, in relief.

"What happened? Where are we?"

I frown at his questions, leaning towards him. "You don't remember?"

Just as the last word leaves my mouth, a bullet pierces the rock where my head rested only seconds ago. I swear under my breath and dive towards Chuck. He looks at me in panic, but I ignore it, trying to see our attackers. Sticking my head above the rock, in the direction from which the bullet was fired, I see no sign of life. I actually can't see much of anything between the snow and the trees. They shouldn't be able to see me either.

"How in the world," I wonder quietly to myself.

"Why ar..e we be..ing shot..at," he asks, his chattering teeth chopping his words.

He must not be warm enough, even in his newly conscious state. I stop myself suddenly, as something sits at the tip of my brain, but refuses to compute.

That's it, I think to myself, crouching beside Chuck. He looks at me in concern. They can't see through the rock so they might assume there is only one of us. I need to hide.

"I want you stay here. There are people after us, but I'm going to take care of them. If they confront you, say you're alone."

He doesn't respond.

"Can you do that Chuck," I question, taking his face in my hands, forcing him to look me in the eyes.

"Yes. Play dumb. I think I can do that," he responds weakly, giving a little grin at the end to pacify me.

"Good. I'm going to get us out of this," I assure him, before moving away, into the shadows of the surrounding rocks. When I'm at an acceptable distance, I plop down on the ground, toss my bag to the side, and begin covering myself with snow.

I can't believe I didn't consider that they might have heat vision. That's not something a CIA agent generally encounters, unless they're the ones using it. My only consolation is that it wouldn't have changed what we did, even if I had known ahead of time.

My lower body and torso are sufficiently covered. I grab my gun, positioning my hand and head so that I have a clear view of Chuck, a clear view of the path behind him, and a good firing angle. As thoroughly as possible, I cover my head and arms with the cold precipitation, hoping it's enough to fool their goggles.

I hear a branch crack. Chuck must have heard it too because he visibly winces. He's going to be fine, I reassure myself for the millionth time. The noise came from the forest and I adjust my eyes quick enough to see two dark figures emerging. When they're close enough for me to see specifics, I assess their treat level.

Catching a glimpse of the goggles around their necks is all the confirmation I need of their status. I mentally prepare myself to take life, knowing that I can't afford the niceties of a non-lethal wound, not when Chuck's well being hangs in the balance. My hand tenses around the gun's handle once, before firing two quick shots. I watch as the bullets hit their marks and both men fall to the ground.

"Nice shot," a voice says behind me.

All the blood drains from my face as I realize that someone snuck up on me, putting him at a serious advantage. As quickly as possible, I spring from my snow cocoon to face my adversary. It wasn't fast enough and he easily kicks my gun away, causing me to stagger.

"That wasn't very nice," I say, in an attempt to seem less concerned than I actually am.

"It wasn't nice of you to kill my partners," he sneers.

I'm through talking and go in for the attack. He's able to fend me off and I realize that we're evenly matched. I throw a kick and a punch at the same time, hoping to land something. Fearing for his consciousness, he blocks my arm, allowing my leg to connect with his side. A grunt of pain escapes his lips and I can clearly see the anger flash through his earth colored eyes.

"That's it. I'm done playing games," he quips, like some villain from a B movie.

The bigger man begins a barrage of kicks. I hold my own, but am eventually brought to the ground by a swipe of his leg. His knee presses against my chest, just below my throat. I struggle to escape his hold, but it is futile. He leans his head in closer to me, with a grin on his face. I have no doubt he's about to gloat.

"It's been nice meeting you Agent Walker. Too bad it had to be under these circumstances," he says.

"Go to hell," I grind out, kicking my legs wildly, in another escape attempt. He pulls a gun from its holster on his belt. As hard as I try to fight it, panic and fear fill my system.

"I'm going to kill you now and then we get to take the boy toy Intersect home to play. Do you think he'll cooperate or are we going to have to be persuasive," he questions, but already knows the answer.

My gaze flicks to Chuck momentarily and I see another man looming over him. The man draws his leg back and delivers a vicious kick to Chuck's side. I can hear his faint cry of pain and it ignites something inside of me. As inconspicuously as possible, I bend my leg and reach for my boot, drawing out a knife.

The man above me gives one last chuckle before he pulls the trigger on his gun. I move my head out of the way, bringing my arm up as far as it will go and stabbing him in the back. In pain, he loosens his grip and I am free enough to move. Not even thinking, I finish him off and whip my head around, towards Chuck's previous location.

His attacker still towers over him and I let out an unworldly sound, as I sprint towards them. I cover the fifteen or so yards faster the Marion Jones on steroids, taking the last few feet in the air, as I jump into the hefty man. We are both thrown to the ground, but he is surprised and I am prepared. In an almost blind rage, I pummel him endlessly, until Chuck's voice breaks through the fog.

Realizing that using the man as my punching bag will not make us safer, I grab the collar of his jacket, lift him up, and smack him back to the ground. I repeat this several times before I am able to speak.

"How many more of you are there," I yell.

He refuses to answer so I repeat my process and question, along with a few other choice words to scare him. Taking the knife that I used on his friend, I press it to his throat.

"I'm generally a pleasant person, but you all seem to be bringing out a dangerous side of me," I threaten. I'm not sure if it's my words or the look of pure hatred that I'm sure appears on my face, but he concedes.

"No one else. There were just four of us, but more will come when they don't hear back," he supplies, with regret.

"We'll just have to make sure they hear from you won't we," I say, taking the radio from his belt and holding it to his mouth.

"What," he questions.

"Bring them on the air and say you have the package. If you say anything else, I'll kill you."

I press the button and he complies, saying, "Person Two to home. Person Two to home."

After a few seconds, a voice comes through the equipment. "We hear you Person Two. What is your status?"

I give the man a menacing glare and he responds accordingly. "We have the package."

I decompress the button before he can say anything else and wait for his team to give their acknowledgement. Once I hear what I want, I flash the man a happy smile before knocking him unconscious with the handle of my knife.

"Now that wasn't so hard," I say, dragging him to the nearest tree and securing him with Chuck's tie.

As the adrenaline begins to wane, I realize that we might just get out of this thing. Help should get here before Person Two's home team realizes they don't really have the package. This brings my thoughts back to my asset, to Chuck. I rush to him as quickly as possible. He's no longer leaning against the rock. Instead, he's lying prone on the snowy ground. There is blood dribbling from his mouth and down the side of his face. I brush it away with my thumb, morbidly fascinated at how it soaks into the cloth of my glove.

"Oh, god," I say, sitting beside him. To my relief his eyelids snap open, but his brown orbs looks less than alive.

"Did you get them," he asks, his voice barely above a whisper.

I smile and nod my head, as moisture begins to fill my eyes. Unconsciously, I wipe at my face to hide my weakness. Chuck raises his hand, in an attempt to comfort me, but it quickly drops back to the ground.

"You have to stay with me Chuck. Help is on the way," I plead.

He gives me a small smile, before saying, "Thanks, for everything. Best almost year of my life, if it were remotely real."

My mouth opens and closes, but I don't know what to say. It doesn't matter because his face quickly goes limp. I tear the glove off of my right hand and grab his wrist. He has a weak pulse. The fact that he's still alive is good enough for me. Getting to my feet, I take in our surroundings, as the sky begins to lighten, thanks to the clearing storm and rising sun.

I have to get Chuck to civilization. There must be a ranger station around here somewhere or other campers who have means of communication. I wander around the site, picking up the stern weapons and placing them properly throughout my body. Once everything is set, I stand above Chuck. Mustering all the strength I've ever had, I pick him up and toss him over my shoulder, making sure the pressure if away from his rib cage.

I start off into the forest, labored, but determined to survive. Chuck's weight begins to get to me and I stumble every few steps. With a few breaks in between, I'm able to trek for hours. Before I know it, I sun is out in full force.

A particularly nasty fall forces me to drop Chuck to the ground so that I don't seriously injure my knees. I'm about to pick him back up when I notice that his chest isn't moving. Slightly panicked, I lean my ear to his lips and wait to hear the sound of his breath. Nothing happens. Refusing to accept things, I once again put my fingers to his wrist. I can't feel a pulse.

Grief begins to overcome me, even as my training kicks in and I start CPR. For the first time since that night on the pier, my lips touch his. It is not how I imagined our second kiss would happen. When nothing changes, I begin banging on his chest, as tears fill my eyes and spill onto my cheeks. Eventually, I bring my hands to my own body and rock back and forth, trying to stamp out the pain.

I hear a rustling behind me and viciously mop away the moisture before grabbing my gun. Prepared to die along with Chuck, I whirl around to face the threat. Relief and shock flood me as I see Casey's face.

"Whoa Walker. It's just me," he says, putting his hands in the air.

I lower my gun and look back at Chuck's unmoving form. I hang my head in regret.

"You're too late. Chuck's dead."

----------------

_The End...nah I'm just kidding. One, maybe two more chapters to go._


	6. Chapter 6

_AN: I decided to chop the final chapter so that I could give you guys something today because I realized the Easter fesivities would keep me busy._

Chapter 6

"Ladies and gentlemen, we are gathered here today to honor the memory of a friend, brother, and a wonderful human being."

I cringe at the omission of the term significant other, but they couldn't possibly know my inner workings. Not even he knew the truth. I'll never get the chance to tell him how I feel. I wasn't good enough, fast enough, strong enough.

"According to his sister, Charles Irving Bartowski came into the world on a day very similar to this one. It is fitting that we say goodbye at a time when mother nature has created such beauty."

At the mention of Ellie, I glance toward the row of seats to my right. Devin has his arms around her and I can only imagine the sadness emanating from her sunglass covered eyes. If she feels even half of what I do, her heart is breaking. The shattered woman wouldn't consider herself lucky, but I do. As Chuck's older sister, she got to spend his entire life with him. Our time together fell just short of a year. That's no where near long enough of a period to unlock the Nerd Herd leader's secrets.

Morgan and Anna are sitting next to them, along with some of his other co-workers and people I do not recognize. It hurts to think that they may be parts of his extended family that I'll never get to meet. I will never have the pleasure of being introduced as Chuck's girlfriend and know that it's reality, instead of the fake, convoluted world in which I usually exist.

I'm surprised by how much Morgan's ashen face rattles me. He wasn't my favorite person, but he was a stalwart cheerleader for Chuck, getting him through the toughest times. You can't ask for much more than that from a friend. Of course, I haven't had a true friend since grade school. The man who's life we are here to celebrate wanted to be that friend. He wanted to be my everything. I only wish that I had let him take on that burden.

"We have a letter that was discovered with the deceased's will and other belongings. I would like to read it now for all of you. I'm told that is what he wished."

The news that Chuck wrote a last will and testament shocks me, despite his propensity to overanalyze and plan. Every agent prepares their final papers when they sign with the CIA and we update them accordingly, but Chuck should never have had to worry about things like death.

"To my friends and family,

There's not much I can say except thank you. I could not have wished for a better support system. We've been through the ups and down of life together and always came out on top. You may not understand the events that led to my death, but I want you to know that I'm fine with everything. I've managed to find a lot of closure and peace these last few months.

I'd like to thank my stable of hoes for keeping me on my toes and occasionally doing your work. I don't imagine that your new leader will be as understanding, so get to work.

Big Mike, you've been a great boss and a genuine friend. Despite your perpetual anger, I know you genuinely care for us. Take it easy on the BuyMore crew. They try their best.

Captain Awesome, Devin, you've been like a brother to me. No matter how chiseled your features or brilliant your career, you remained a genuinely good guy. I can't think of a better match for my sister. Take care of her.

Morgan, you are my brother. I don't care what the DNA tests claimed. I couldn't have survived without you and I'm sorry for my funks. Please take good care of my collection and don't let Anna go. She's good for you.

Oh god, Ellie. I'm so sorry. We were suppose to grow old together and give our kids the family that we never had. You put up with me all these years and I love you so much. I love you. Please don't be sad. Smile on your wedding day. Look out for Morgan, if you can."

It has taken all of my agency training to remain outwardly calm, but it's all tumbling down. I can't believe that he's gone. For someone who will be a numerically small part of my life, Chuck has left an indelible mark. Everyone is singing as they begin to lower that casket. My knees feel weak.

"I'd like to invite Sarah Walker to finish lowering the casket. After all, It is her fault that Mr. Bartowski is dead."

I can't stop the shock that appears on my face. The entire congregation is now staring at me, looks of accusation adorning their features.

"Wha…I didn't," is all that I can manage to say.

"You killed him Walker. Walker….Walker wake up. Walker."

I'm jolted to consciousness by the gruff voice of John Casey. Everything is murky, like I'm floating in water. My vision is blurred and my limbs feel like Jell-O on the Fourth of July. As my eyes adjust to the light, Casey's face looms above me, in scarily perfect clarity.

"Not pretty," I slur, channeling Chuck. The thought of him pierces my heart like a sword.

"Haha Walker. Very funny," he says, not amused in the least.

"Chuck," I mumble, trying as hard as I can to control my limbs and get off whatever contraption holds me.

"Where's the fire? Calm down," he orders, in a slightly worried tone.

"I need to see him," I plead, not caring how strange my request. I need to see him one last time, even if it's just his lifeless corpse.

Casey puts his hands on my shoulders and pushes me back down onto the bed. I struggle against him with all my might, but his grip is fierce and I am feeble, in my drained state.

"Bartowski's in surgery. You can't see him now, unless you know how to perform a lobotomy," Casey informs me, using his not so funny sense of humor.

His words stop my struggle like a car hitting a brick wall. I'm not sure if he said what I think he just said, but I'm sure as hell going to find the truth.

"He's alive," I inquire.

As if sensing I no longer have a desire to break free of my prison, he lifts his hands off of my body and places them awkwardly at his side, before crossing them over his torso. He then takes a step away from me, trying to get into his professional agent mode.

"He's in surgery now, has been for hours," he explains.

"That's impossible. He was dead. I felt him die," I say, shaking my head back and forth in an effort to repudiate his words.

"Well your hands must have been a little too cold Walker," he yells, startling me to a stop. I can tell he regrets his words because his face softens slightly.

"He's alive," I repeat.

Casey shakes his head in affirmation and proceeds to explain himself. " After I got there with backup, you passed out. We checked Chuck and he had a weak pulse, a very weak pulse, but he was still among the living."

He glances at me to see how I'm digesting the information before continuing.

"You were actually yards away from one of the mountain roads, so we loaded you both in the vehicles and got you to the hospital ASAP. The kid's been in surgery for over five hours. They won't tell me his chances."

"I need to be with him," I state, once again trying to get to my feet. Just like before, Casey pushes me back down. However, this time he threatens to restrain me.

"There's nothing you can do for him Agent Walker. You're being treated for exhaustion and dehydration. That means you need to stay in bed."

"He's alive," I say for the third time, not caring how redundant it sounds. As if I'm a torrent of water crashing against a crack in the Hoover Dam that has finally burst, I crumble. My shoulders begin to shake uncontrollably and I take in great gulps of air. Tears that have been threatening to escape for the last forty-eight hours finally breach the gates and course down my face. I constantly repeat my two word mantra.

"Okay. You just stay here and rest. I'll let you know if anything changes," Casey says hesitantly, backpedaling out of the room as quickly as possible.

I can't really blame him. I must look like a wreck of an operative, but there are just some times in life when you can't maintain the veneer. This is one of those times. Wrapping my arms around my stomach, I curl into a fetal position and eventually drift into nothingness. Thankfully, my subconscious is free of dreams.

What I can only assume is hours later, I return to the land of the living. I'm not sure what caused me to stir. It may have been the light streaming into my room through the window or the medical personnel sprinting down the hall in the direction of the blaring bells. My heart sinks as my mind recognizes the meaning of the stimuli. Despite my frailty, I yank the IV from my arm and struggle to my feet. The floor is cold against my bare skin, but I persevere.

The hallway is quiet by the time I cross the threshold of my room. Holding onto the handrail, I slowly make my way in the direction of the previous commotion. A voice from behind stops me in my tracks.

"Christ Walker. Bartowski may want to see you like this, but I certainly don't," Casey barks.

It is then that I realize the state of my dress or undress as most would describe it. I'm wearing one of those hospital gowns and the back is definitely not secured. My only saving grace is that the nurses left my undergarments in place, but it doesn't prevent a slight blush from creeping onto my cheeks. Regaining all the self-assuredness that I can muster, I turn to face my witty partner.

"You're just mad that this is the only chance you'll ever get Casey," I joke, with a glint in my eye that has been all too absent the last month.

He rolls his eyes but says nothing, moving forward to take my arm. "Let's get you some proper clothing and we can go see dumb and dumber."

"He's ok," I question, with more emotion in my voice than I would have liked for Casey to hear. I'm not even sure why I bother to hide it. He saw me break down. He has to have a pretty good idea about my feelings towards our asset.

"They brought him out of surgery about an hour ago. We can see him once the nurse gives us the say so," he informs me, breaking my inner musings.

I'm a little miffed. "You said you would come get me right away."

He will have none of my blame game. "I did, but you were sleeping. We couldn't have gotten in anyway because he's still unconscious from the anesthesia."

The human part of me realizes that Casey has gone above and beyond the call of duty. As just an agent, he would have no obligation to inform me of Chuck's status and make sure I get time with him. All he really needs to do is stand guard over Chuck's room, but he's taken the time to make sure I'm okay and that's strangely touching.

In a moment of temporary insanity, I lay my head against his chest and tighten my arms around his waist. "Thank you Casey. You saved his life and I'll never forget that," I remark.

For his part, Casey is completely stiff. Out of obligation, he gives me a pat on the back and quickly extricates himself from my grasp. Leading me into my room, he says, "We will never speak of this moment. Now come on, let's go see your guy."


	7. Chapter 7

_AN: Well, here it is, the final chapter. I'm probably going to do an epilogue, but it will be short. Thanks to all those who reviewed._

Chapter 7

The room is uncomfortably still when I enter. Only the sounds of the monitoring equipment provide distraction from my mission. Chuck's prone body is centered on the generic hospital bed. A sheet is pulled up to his chest. His arms rest on top of the starchy material. His left forearm is encased by a white cast. I can't help but think that he would have preferred something more colorful. It doesn't look like they touched his head wound, which makes me strangely proud of my first aid skills.

His face looks so peaceful that I tiptoe to his bedside chair. Positioning it so that I can see Chuck and the hallway, I sink down onto the structure. Casey quickly invades my line of vision, leaning against the doorframe.

"Just talked to the doctor. The kid's going to be fine. They had to repair some internal damage, but the rest was fairly simple to treat," he informs.

My eyes flick to Chuck's face before returning to Casey's.

"He's not….is he in a coma," I meekly question.

A look of shock appears in Casey's gaze before responding, "No, not at all. He should be over the gas by now. Must just be tired."

"Oh, good," I say, silently chiding myself for being so pessimistic. There isn't a lot to be optimistic about in our line of work, however, so I'm not surprised.

"He'll wake up when he's ready. They said he will need bed rest for two days, before we can move him," he continues.

I nod my head in an attempt to feign coherence. The truth is that I'm reliving the moments in the woods when I thought I'd never again hear Chuck's voice or see his smile. Those are the times when clarity hits, when what's important in life becomes apparent. My dilemma is whether to listen to what I heard in those minutes or listen to what my head says now.

"Once he's well enough, we've been ordered to complete the original mission. The specialist is waiting to extract the Intersect," Casey says reluctantly, as if I've become this fragile piece of china.

My head snaps at his declaration. I realize that I may not even have a choice in the matter at hand. Once the secrets are out of Chuck's brain, he will be of no use to the government. He will no longer need handlers. He will no longer need me.

"Understood," I say, in the sternest tone possible.

I can tell that Casey wants to know what I'm thinking. Instead of asking, he says, " I got us a room at the hotel across the street. Someone needs to watch the asset at all times, but we should get some sleep otherwise."

I don't respond.

"You take the first shift. Call me when you want a break," he says, pretending to be in charge of the situation.

"No problem Agent Casey," I automatically respond.

He exits the picture, leaving me to my thoughts. My musings flow from mundane things like the color of handguns to important things like the role the Agency plays in today's world. Mostly, however, my thoughts center around a certain tall, lanky Nerd Herd leader who has made my life very complicated. Said man is currently moaning in his sleep. Finally regaining my ability to utilize my years of training, I calmly hop to my feet.

"Chuck," I say, hovering above him. Unlike the tranquility I saw earlier, his face is now contorted in discomfort. I say his name a bit louder and his eyes slowly open. They're filled with pain, confusion, and a lack of cognizance. His good hand fumbles for something on the bed. Swatting it out of the way, I take hold of the object in question. It's a morphine dispenser.

"You want more pain killer," I wonder aloud. He groans in response. Assuming that to be a positive answer, I pump the device twice. A minute or so go by before Chuck visibly relaxes. His eyes meet mine and they are much more focused.

"Hi," I say, sitting back down in the chair. It takes immense will power to keep my hands in my lap because I so badly want to touch him.

"Hey," he croaks. His throat must feel like sandpaper. I look around for some type of liquid. Seeing a pitcher on his bedside table, I pour him a glass of water. I'm about to hand it to him when I realize that his injuries hinder his mobility. Improvising, I pluck a straw from the tray and insert it into the cup. His lips eagerly accept the straw and the relief that the drink brings.

He tests out his newly lubricated vocal chords saying, "Thanks."

"No problem," I reply, placing the glass in its original resting place. An odd silence encompasses the room. It's not exactly awkward, just strange.

Never being one to go too long without speaking, Chuck questions me. "What happened?"

"You remember the plane crash," I ask.

"I remember you kicking ass, but that's the last thing," he explains. I smile at his terminology.

"You passed out. I had to carry you for miles. Casey finally found us. I…I thought you were dead," I say. My voice hitches at the end and I pray that he didn't notice. His eyes narrow for a moment, but he lets it go.

"Well, unless this is heaven and you're my guardian angel, I'm still kicking," he slurs, inhibited by the morphine. I'm shocked by the change in his behavior, but I know first hand the effects of high strength medicine.

"That you are Chuck Bartowski. That you are," I concur.

With a slightly more sober voice, Chuck turns to more serious matters. "What happens now?"

I school my face before replying. "You need to rest for a few days. After that, we will take you up to see the specialist. He's fairly confident that he can separate you from the Intersect."

"And then," he questions, after contemplating my words.

"We observe you for a while to ensure that the secrets are gone and you reintegrate into your previous life," I state, like a professor teaching his students.

He gives me a pointed look before posing his next inquiry. "What about us," he says.

And there is it. Chuck has voiced the one puzzle that has been troubling me since we heard about the new procedure. It is the very issue I was pondering while he slept. I'm still not ready to answer.

"Well, tactically speaking, you would no longer need special agent protection. Casey and I will be reassigned," I reply.

"No. What about us," he reiterates, moving his cast wrist back and forth. "Would you take the new assignment or would you give us a chance?"

"Chuck," I sigh, before he interrupts me.

"Are you going to deny that something is happening? I may not have been in the best of shape, but I was there in that forest. I saw how you reacted," he asserts, with an intensity in his eyes that I rarely see.

As much as I want to acknowledge the truth in his words, my professionalism is still too prominent in my behavior. Agent Sarah Walker wins the battle over the woman I sometimes long to be.

"It's my job. I did what I had to do to get us out of there alive," I explain.

A look of exasperation streaks across his features. He unconsciously sits up in the bed. Emotions flitter through his eyes before settling on a look that I can only describe as determination.

"So you're saying that there is nothing between us at all? Think about it long and hard Sarah because I swear to god that this is the last time I will ever ask. If you say no, that's it. I'll get this computer out of me and go back to the life I enjoyed before that blasted e-mail. I will look back on this year with contempt," he says.

I'm completely shocked by the words emanating from my usually reticent asset. By the look in his eyes, I know that his ultimatum is real. This is one of those do or die, fight or flight moments. It is the very thing that I live for, but, in this instance, I'm absolutely terrified. I have to decide between my job, my country and the affable man who I've known for mere months, but was able to break down many of my walls. I don't even know how I really feel. All that I know is that it's different than anything else I've ever experienced. The situation in the forest changed me even more. I have never felt such panic and devotion when protecting an asset in a dire situation.

I heave a giant sigh before responding.

"Even if I wanted to stay, I have a job. I have a responsibility to the CIA, to the country," I respond, but it's more of a non-answer and Chuck sees through it.

"But do you want to stay," he says, almost begging me for a straight answer.

I crumble at his pleading eyes. For some reason, I cannot treat this man like the mark the he is suppose to be. I can't blatantly lie to him, unless it is for his own protection or the good of the country. My head hangs for a moment before lifting once more and looking directly into Chuck's brown orbs.

"Part of me does. A big piece of me wants to throw everything to the wind and explore this thing between us. I can honestly say that I've never felt like this before," I confess, in a quick burst of words.

A huge smile spreads across his face. It blows me away. My emotions are swirling, but I cannot yet let myself bask in the happiness that he has found. There are still too many variables for which to account.

"That scares me Chuck. You hardly know me. I've killed a lot of people. I always thought it was for the greater good, but I'm even starting to question that. These type of distractions will get me killed," I say, trying to explain my rationale.

"Distractions?"

At his look, I backpedal. "I didn't really mean it like that. It's complicated. There are so many forces at work that can easily tear us apart."

"I understand. I guess the big question is whether or not we're worth the risk. Will you take the leap with me Sarah," he questions, holding out his injured hand for me to take.

My gaze darts between his outstretched limb and his inviting face. This man has been beaten down many times in life, but he always manages to get back up and dust himself off. A relationship between us would be just as big of a risk for him as it would be for me. My danger is professional, while his is emotional. I have no doubt that Chuck would eventually lift himself up, if I rejected his proposal.

I believe that I could turn Chuck down and live a fulfilling life, but I don't think I'm willing to take that chance. However, I am prepared to fight. For this strange man, I'm willing to put it all on the line. Removing my hand from its resting place on my lap, I grasp Chuck's cast hand and squeeze. He gives me another lights out smile. This time, I join him. My grin is less dazzling, but no less heartfelt.

"I'm not making any promises," I caution, trying to remain levelheaded.

"Ok," he says, while still stupidly smirking. I chuckle at his childish tendencies.

"I have to go, if I'm reassigned, but I'll make it back as often as possible. If the talking heads object, I'll barter with them. I guess I'm just saying that no matter what happens, I'll try."

"That's all that I ask Sarah," he replies, lowering our joint appendages to the mattress. He then begins tapping his fingers against my palm. It's so…normal that I once again feel tears threatening. If Chuck and I are going to have a relationship, I need to get my emotions under control. For now, I will chalk it up to some form of Post Traumatic Stress Disorder.

It feels good to let go. To borrow the often used cliché, a weight has been lifted off my shoulders. We sit in comfortable silence, until Casey's menacing form appears in the hallway.

"Well isn't this touching," he mocks. His words and tone are sarcastic, but I see a deep rooted understanding in his eyes. It's his way of telling me that he approves.

"Keep it out of my sight from now on," he says. In a less subtle manner, that is his way of telling me that it better not interfere with the job. It will be good to have Casey on our side, if this crazy coupling has any chance of survival.

"And to what do we owe the pleasure of your company Special Agent Casey," Chuck replies, matching Casey's sarcasm. It feels good to hear him so jovial again and know that I had something to do with the reappearance.

"Shift's over Walker. Go get some sleep," he says, completely ignoring Chuck. I want to protest so that I can have more time alone with my….Chuck, but decide to let my partner set the terms. Standing up, I extract my hand from Chuck's grasp, give him a peck on the lips, and smile sweetly at Casey, before leaving the room.

The next few days fly by like summer vacation. Chuck and I spend the mornings and afternoons together, while Casey takes the night watch. He claims that it's more enjoyable when 'the kid's out cold'. I don't mind at all because it gives us a chance to get to know each other on a different level. Our conversations are not clouded by the veil of uncertainty. He still asks questions that I can't answer, however, I am revealing more of myself. Most of the time, we watch television or play chess. We were both surprised to learn of the others affinity for the ancient board game. I've bested him four out of five times. He claims his injuries have impaired his judgment. I let him whine, for now.

Chuck did indeed want a more entertaining cast. One day, while he was napping like an elderly person, I took the initiative and covered the plaster with colorful geometric shapes. Upon awakening, he complained that it looked girly and halfheartedly attempted to convince the staff to make him a new one. I, however, won the battle and he'll have to live with his kaleidoscopic arm.

The doctors have determined Chuck to be well enough for transport. Today we're leaving the hospital and making the three hour trip to Ashland by car. He is dressed and ready to go when I guide the wheelchair into his room.

"What is that," he questions.

I shoot him a smile, saying, "Your mode of transportation."

"No way. I'm not using that," he protests. I'm amazed, sometimes, at how comfortable Chuck is with himself, but there are times like these where he feels the need to flex his masculinity. It's oddly endearing.

"Hospital rules. Besides, you're still weak from the surgery," I say. In an effort to pacify him, I give him a long kiss on the lips. Our faces stay close when the connection ends. He gives me a smirk.

"If you say so," he concedes.

"I do," I reply, maneuvering the wheelchair to his bedside. With a little more help from me than he would have preferred, we get him into the medical contraption.

"Let's go people. Unlike your little Star Trek show, it actually takes time to get places in the real world," Casey barks from the hallway, disappearing as quickly as he appeared. Chuck and I let out simultaneous laughs.

"Let's go," I echo, gripping the handlebars and propelling the chair forward.

Chuck's hand on mine startles me to a stop. He looks up at me with vulnerable eyes.

"Together, right," he question, seeking reassurance.

I rub my thumb over his hand, saying, "Together."

He smiles at me, before facing forward in his seat. As we exit his room, I am less certain about the future than ever before, but my confidence in our decision does not wane. Chuck has brought a great sense of calm into my life and I will be forever grateful. He cracks a joke about hospitals, as we head toward the front doors, toward the unknown.


	8. Epilogue

_AN: Ok, it's done with. I feel like I got lost in the middle of this story(and maybe here in the epilogue), but I'm happy with the final piece. Future long stories will either be planned out properly or completed before posting. Thanks for reading._

Epilogue

To my utter amazement, the aftermath of our plane crash went much smoother than I expected. Casey and I got Chuck to the research facility safely. After days of tests and procedures, Chuck was Intersect free. He experienced horrible headaches, which lead him to take more of his painkillers than I would have recommended. That meant the first leg of the car ride from Oregon to Los Angeles was insanely boring. I spent it glancing back at his sleeping form whenever I thought Casey wasn't paying attention.

We shared a room, during a layover in the Fresno area. My drugged companion made several illicit passes at me. Using immense restraint, I laughed, got him in bed, and snuggled up next to his warm frame. His moaning woke me the next morning. I was aghast to realize that my body had put pressure on his injuries. My profuse apologies were more than enough to appease Chuck, but my conscience was a bit harder to pacify.

Chuck insisted on remaining cognizant for the rest of our journey, which led to rousing adaptations of the classic car games. Eager to partake in something so normal, I managed to spot twenty different license plates from my vantage point in the front seat. Okay, I actually identified thirty-five, but I figured that Chuck should win things once and a while.

Ever the charmer, Chuck managed to corral Casey into playing the alphabet game. Well, he participated until Chuck made him say the words butterfly and emu. I stayed in until the end and put my powers of memorization to use. Basically, I slaughtered Chuck.

Arriving in LA, it was decided that Chuck would stay with me until his visible injuries had healed. We did not want to tip off his very astute sister. The two of us took naps, while Casey went home to check his surveillance equipment and set up a meeting with Director Graham and General Beckman.

Once the BuyMore had closed, we snuck into the home theater room. It turned out that the guys who were after us were Fulcrum. The man I left alive was one of their leaders. That meant that our fearless superiors were as grateful as their unchanging demeanors would allow. Chuck was thanked for his assistance over the preceding months. He was told to check his bank account the following day, which caused him some confusion, but I knew the meaning. It looked like he was finally getting that paycheck about which he always complained.

Casey was informed that he would remain in LA indefinitely to watch over Chuck and go on the occasional mission. He gave his usual dissatisfied grunt, but I could tell that he wasn't as opposed to the idea as he wanted people to believe. The hardened NSA agent was about ready to give up the good fight.

My heart sunk a bit when I was briefed about my next assignment. I was ordered to report to DC the next week, before continuing on to Europe for a month long stint. Involuntarily, my mouth opened to interject, to protest, but something stopped me from doing it. Chuck's disappointment was tangible.

We waited until we got back to my hotel room for the fireworks to start. Chuck was furious. He accused me of leading him on, of lying. Shocked, I sat on the bed. I tried to explain to him that my job was important to me. I wasn't ready to give up my career. He explained that he wasn't upset that I was leaving. He was furious at my utter lack of reaction in the home theater room.

The sound of his exit nearly broke me.

I wasn't sure where he went, but Casey said that he was safe, so I let him steam. The night before I was due to leave for DC, he appeared in my doorway. I had rehearsed an apology over and over in my head, but nothing seemed adequate when confronted with his pained eyes. He saved me the trouble by wrapping my body in his strong arms. Even though it wasn't how he imagined our relationship starting, he forgave me for going and promised to wait. Despite his words, I could tell that he was still hurting. The fact that he didn't want to stay the night wreaked havoc on my frame of mind, as I set off on my next assignment.

The Europe mission ended up taking two months. It was horrible. Thanks to Casey, I was able to talk to Chuck a few times. He apologized for his behavior the week before I left, promising to make it up to me. When I boarded the plane to return to the States, an irrational fear overtook me. I somehow analyzed my way to the belief that Chuck had moved on with some other woman. My mind cited the phrases he used, the tone of his voice, and things I heard in the background.

It was all delusional, however, because the man gave me the most mind-blowing kiss when I arrived at LAX. We even drew applause from the patrons, which caused me a rare moment of embarrassment. My apartment had been cleaned out by the CIA and relinquished to the hotel's owners, so Chuck took me back to his place. We used the 'Morgan Door' to avoid time consuming conversations with Awesome and Ellie. Instead, we laid down on his bed and dozed. When I woke up, he was staring at me intently. He then proceeded to breathe out those three words that I have so much trouble confronting. I wasn't ready to say them, but I gave him the most meaningful kiss that I could muster.

I found out the next day that I'd be heading to Africa in two weeks. With our condensed time frame, Chuck took a few vacation days. He insisted on showing me the sites, however, most of the time was spent lip locked. I only remember a few of the museums and one rather romantic dinner. We had sex for the first time on my final evening in his bedroom. It was beautiful, but bittersweet.

That pattern repeated itself for eighteen months, of which Chuck and I spent about twelve weeks together. It became increasingly difficult to extract myself from his embrace and hop on a plane. Chuck even broke up with me after a particularly long trip overseas. We managed to patch things up, but that feeling of despair stuck with me.

My last excursion put me in South America, infiltrating a counterfeiting ring. Two-thirds of the way through, I received a worried call from Casey informing me that Chuck had been in a severe car accident. Beside myself with worry, I called Director Graham for extraction. He denied my request, ordering me to finish the mission. My sense of commitment compelled me to complete my work. The minute I took down my target, I was on the phone with the airlines getting a red eye for Los Angeles. My next call was to my superiors. I was through playing the CIA's game. It didn't have the hold on me that was there two years prior. Chuck had become the most important aspect of my life.

Upon landing, Casey informed me that Chuck had been released from the hospital and was home recuperating. I gave a cab driver 200 and told him to get me to my destination like his life depended on it. As I knocked on Chuck's door, I realized that my hands were shaking slightly. I'd gone face to face with terrorists, but the thought of a serious commitment still scared me.

The door opened and I saw my very weak looking boyfriend precariously balanced on crutches. Shock was evident on his face. I normally called him when I arrived in town, but it hadn't even occurred to me when I landed. Instead of using words to express my feelings, I enveloped him in a fierce hug. He stumbled a bit, but it was his hiss that broke through my haze of euphoria at seeing him alive and in relatively good health. In response, I uttered those three little words that had haunted me my entire life. I repeated them over and over. His smile was amazing and I knew that I was finally home.

Casey decided to retire and I took over his duties as Chuck's protector. My superiors weren't happy with the relationship, but I used my skills of persuasion to convince them that it was the best possible outcome. I went on missions every so often and was required to put in time training new recruit classes.

Having heard good things about him from a certain super secret agent, one of the CIA's contractors hired Chuck as a software security analyst. He got a nice pay upgrade and we moved into our own place. Ellie and Awesome were expanding their family. We didn't want to cramp their style, as Chuck put it. Things were hard, but we made them work. I was sort of glad that, once upon a time, our plane crashed in the middle of nowhere.


End file.
